The best thing John could say about James Moriarty was that the man was small. (He would have added "dead" to that short list, but at the moment, the dead part was not exactly a positive.) John realized that if Moriarty hadn't been of a small stature (nothing wrong with that), it was unlikely they would both fit inside Sherlock's casket. As it was, the squeeze was very tight - they were stacked one atop the other and John could honestly say that he had never felt more claustrophobic or creeped out in his entire life. His heart pounded as he held his breath and tried not think about the fact that he was stretched across a corpse. "Just hold it together, John," he said to himself, trying to calm his racing heart. "Just breathe," he said and then took a deep breath through his nose. Bad idea he thought, as he gagged on the smell of formaldehyde and death. Moriarty hadn't decayed much, but he still smelled like hell.
"I swear to god, Sherlock, I am punching you in the face the next time I see you," John vowed, only to be startled a moment later by a cheery chirp signaling the receipt of a text. Maneuvering his hand down to his jeans pocket, he was able to free his phone. There was so little room between his head and the lid of the coffin that the phone was so close to John's face he could barely read the screen. A text from Sherlock. One word. "Cozy?" Wanker.
It took John several minutes in the cramped quarters to text back what was surely a horribly misspelled version of "Get me the hell out of here," but Sherlock must have been able to figure it out because John soon received a reply. "Patience." John was flabbergasted. "Patience? I'm crammed in a coffin with a dead guy! I'm sorry I'm not feeling particularly patient right now!" John felt his blood pressure rise, followed quickly by the feeling that he was running out of air and couldn't breathe. He tried to push up to crack the lid a bit and let in some fresh air, but he wasn't able to get enough leverage. Was there enough air? What if he was slowly (or not so slowly) suffocating? John felt his chest constrict and felt his breathing grow even more labored. He realized he was having a panic attack and knew he needed to calm down, but damn if that wasn't a bit hard to do while running out of air trapped in a coffin with a dead man while hiding from a lethal assassin. Hyperventilating wasn't going to make this easier, but he couldn't find a way to make himself calm down. Instead, the panic and fear was growing and John was feeling more and more desperate with each ragged, painful breath.
There was another chime. Frantically, John brought the phone up to his face and struggled to make out the message. "See you soon." Oh. (Big breath.) God. (A second big, cleansing breath.) Right. Somehow, those words from Sherlock helped John focus and clear his mind. There was a reason he was putting himself through this insanity and, if he pulled himself together, there would be a major reward. Sherlock Holmes back at 221b. "Focus on that, John," he said to himself. As his breathing normalized, John imagined his flatmate stretched out long on the sofa, playing the violin at all hours of the night, or effectively turning the kitchen into a hazardous waste area. Oh, god, there was nothing that John wanted more than to see him soon.
Molly Hooper used her key card to sneak into the morgue. She hadn't been at work for almost two weeks, ever since John Watson had tried to get her to share what she knew about the death of Sherlock Holmes. A bit prone to nervousness, Molly was even more on edge than usual tonight. She wanted to get in and out without being seen by any of her colleagues. There were going to be difficult questions to face in the coming days about why she signed a death certificate for a man who wasn't dead, but she didn't have time for answers right now. Because right now, she had a date with the dead man.
Well, the non-dead dead man. And not a date, more like a meeting. A secret meeting, like others she'd been to over the past year and a half. Although to the rest of the world he was dead and buried, Sherlock Holmes was still an ongoing part of Molly's life. Through clandestine channels the managed to communicate regularly and they'd met on a number of occasions. (One of Molly's regular "duties" was to report to Sherlock on the general health and well-being of John.) During these meetings, Sherlock was always wearing a very elaborate disguise of some sort. The one she recalled most vividly (and most frequently) was the sultan disguise – she'd rather liked Sherlock in the long flowing robe. For weeks after she'd fantasized about him riding on a camel under a shockingly blue sky. As she flipped on the lights in the morgue, she wondered what disguise Sherlock would be wearing today.
Molly screamed as she saw the dead man, sitting in a chair, his legs up on the desk. "God, Sherlock! You scared me to death!"
"Lucky we're at the morgue, then. No work at all to get you up on a table," Sherlock said with a smirk, rising and holding out his arms. "Hello, Molly."
Molly crossed and gave him a quick hug. "I expected to not be able to recognize you."
"I'm myself again, Molly," he said, "for better or worse."
"Better, definitely. I mean, it's good. That you're back. It's very good," she stammered.
Sherlock looked at Molly out of the corner of his eye and said, quietly. "they'll come down on you for your part in this."
"I know."
"They'll likely be an inquest," Sherlock continued. "You could go to prison."
"I'm not afraid," she said, her voice strong. Sherlock felt the echo bounce off the wall nearest him and wash over his skin.
"I'm sorry I've put you in this position, Molly. Terribly sorry."
Molly's chin tilted up as she spoke, "I did what was right. If I have to pay for that, well, it will be my honor, Sherlock."
Sherlock nodded, accepting with grace the gift she was bestowing on him. He was moved by the bravery of this woman. A woman he had never really seen until he'd desperately needed her, 18 months ago. He was only still alive because of her, and if he was somehow able to resume his life again, it would be due to the force of nature that was Molly Hooper.
There was a honk from outside the rolling garage door. The hearse was here. Sherlock looked down at Molly, eyes gleaming, "Well, before they lock us both away for good, let's pull out one last body. What do you say?"
Molly smiled, "for old times' sake!"
Sherlock slid open the garage door. The hearse rolled inside and Sherlock closed the door behind it. The driver stepped out as Sherlock and Molly quickly opened the back hutch. "Hey, wait," said the driver, "the coppers told me I wasn't to let no one touch the dead guy."
Sherlock slid the coffin out of the car and onto a cart. "No worries, there. I don't give a damn about the dead man. I just want the live one."
He gave the lid a tug and John Watson sat up, gasping for breath, shielding his eyes, which were blinded by the bright light after so long in complete darkness.
The driver stumbled backwards, screaming. "He's alive! Oh, my god! He's alive!" The man scampered from the room, clutching his chest.
John blinked, trying to restore his vision. "Sherlock?"
Sherlock smiled. "John." Sherlock grasped his friend's arms and pulled him out of the coffin. John stumbled into Sherlock, his legs wobbly and cramped. He grabbed onto Sherlock's coat to hold himself up and then the emotion of seeing his dear friend again swept him up further. John pulled Sherlock into an enormous hug and clung there, savoring this moment. After a bit, Sherlock's arms encircled John. Finally, Sherlock said, "John, when did you become such a hugger?"
John laughed and pulled back. "It's so good to see you again." Sherlock looked into his friend's eyes. It was clear this deep feeling was mutual. Just then, Molly made a slight coughing noise to let John know she was there.
John was absolutely shocked. "Molly! Where have you been? You sneaky bugger, you knew all about this and never told me!"
Molly said apologetically, "I'm sorry, John. I wanted to tell you, believe me, I did. But Sherlock swore me to secrecy."
John grabbed her hand and brought it to his heart. "I know, Molly. And thank you, for all you did to help him. You're an amazing woman, Molly Hooper," John said, cementing his declaration with a kiss on her cheek. Molly beamed.
John turned to Sherlock. "Okay, Sherlock. The whole world knows you're alive. James Moriarty is in your casket and there's a trained killer waiting to put a bullet in my brain. On a brighter note, Molly's back and we're all together. So, what's next?"
Sherlock Holmes smiled. "Well, John. Now things get interesting."
